Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren

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      CHAPTER THREE

      A TUBBY BASSET HOUND and a Labrador retriever with a gray muzzle met Vic at her front door with evident delight. Jamey hunkered down instantly and fondled them both. “Aren’t you the lovely boys, then?” he said. The dogs nearly wagged their bodies in two.

      Vic stepped around dogs and man and walked into the living room. She was still shaking from the ride on Jamey’s motorcycle. She’d been scared, but elated, too.

      “My niece, Liz, took the two Jack Russell terriers with her to Florida,” she said, “and a friend is keeping her parrot. He’s not fond of me.”

      “Can’t imagine any creature not being fond of you.”

      “Unfortunately my cat views the parrot as an entrée.”

      “Cat? Where?”

      “You probably won’t see him. He used to be a barn cat until he got an ear torn off in a fight. Now he’s a house cat, but he’s peculiar. Hides from strangers.”

      “Does he really?”

      Vic turned and saw Jamey—still squatting on the floor—with a large one-eared gray tabby climbing up his shirtfront to butt him in the chin.

      “Oh.”

      “Have names, do they?”

      “The basset is Max, the Labrador is Sam and the cat is Stripes. We don’t go in for fancy names much around here.”

      “We don’t at home, either.” He stood with the cat in his arms. Vic heard the purr from across the room. Surely a man so good with animals couldn’t be Jack the Ripper, could he?

      “Going to call Marshall Dunn now? Check on me?”

      His ability to read her mind was disconcerting. “It’s almost four in the morning in England, isn’t it? Marshall would kill me if I woke him now.”

      “He probably would. But he’ll be up by six to watch the lads ride his Thoroughbreds across the Downs. You can call him before you go to bed.” He grinned over the cat’s head. “And push a chair under your door if you’re nervous.”

      Vic felt her face flush. She’d been thinking of doing precisely that. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Come on upstairs. I’ll show you your room.”

      “Let me bring in my kit from the bike first.”

      “Sure. I’m amazed you can carry a saddle on a motorcycle.”

      “Easy. Set the roll bar up in back and strap the saddle to it. I can carry as much in the side holders as you can in the trunk of your average car.”

      She watched him open the various holders, extract a pair of duffel bags and bring them in.

      “Now I’m ready for that shower,” he said. “Then I’ll make you an omelette fit for a queen.”

      “I’m a perfectly adequate cook, thank you.”

      “You may be the world’s greatest chef, but I owe you for the job and the bed. Sit. I’ll find my way. You put your feet up.”

      Instead of following his advice, she went to the refrigerator, checked to see that she had plenty of eggs and “a bit of cheese,” as well as English muffins. She poured herself a glass of white zinfandel, set another glass on the counter for Jamey and headed for her bedroom.

      She’d moved her enormous old bedroom furniture down from the big house. Other than unpacking enough of her clothes to work in, she’d done precious little else. There was not a picture on the wall nor a knickknack on a table. Cardboard boxes sat stacked in every corner. The bed was made up with sheets, pillowcases and quilts, but she hadn’t bothered to put on the dust ruffle. There didn’t seem to be time these days for more than eating, sleeping and working horses.

      She sat down on the bed, pulled off her paddock boots and her heavy socks, wiggled her toes, sipped her wine and lay back on the bed for just a moment.

      “YOUR DINNER’S READY, lass,” a soft voice said.

      Her eyes popped open and she sat up so quickly her head spun.

      Jamey McLachlan stood in the doorway—no, lounged in the doorway. His skin glistened and his wet hair shone like an otter’s pelt. He wore fresh jeans and a bright red crewneck СКАЧАТЬ